in Querétaro, on the 19th of June, 1867, at seven o'clock in the morning, together with his ex-Mexican generals, Miramon and Mejia. Peace to his ashes."
It was at an early hour of that Sabbath morning that a messenger from Camp Casa Mata brought to the "Tacony" a copy of the brief despatch that had been received. Pulling alongside of the "Elizabeth," the American commander roused the Austrian from his morning slumbers. The two officers met in the cabin, where the count, standing in his nightdress, scanned eagerly his visitor's face, and exclaimed: "My friend, you have brought me evil news. They have killed the Emperor. They have murdered my prince." It was not necessary to answer in words. The despatch was handed him in silence. For a moment the Austrian, tall, athletic, and stalwart, stood speechless, stricken dumb by the tiny paper he held in his hand. "Yes; they have murdered him; it was murder; for was he not a prisoner of war?" And that strong man wept; his passionate sense of loyalty, his affectionate devotion to the brother of his emperor, caused tears to stream down his manly face.
It was a sad Sunday for the officers and crews of the ships at Sacrificios. The sympathies of Austrians, French, English, and Americans, the hopes and fears of all, had run in a single channel of common accord, and the futility of all efforts cast a
